Believers promenade in the parking lot

of the House of God. Fendi bags and flip-

flops, Mustangs and Marlboro spliffs ash

beyond the sightline of a great cloud of witnesses.

For now, like honeycomb, the doors gape open.

Children gurgle with bliss. Couples hold hands and scowl.

Stragglers and teens congregate on the shelf, balconied

like clipped doves while ushers buzz to their stations.

In the bathroom, the good one far from the front entrance,

a girl on her knees thanks every god, throws

her piss-soaked offering into the expectant basket.

And the queers and fags and dykes expend themselves,

coursing through the body of Christ like blood.

Backstage, the pastor basks in first service

afterglow—instructs the choir, band, worship leader

to really ramp it up this time. Make the Spirit move

and everyone under the lights knows what he means.

Today’s sermon is about The End. The world cleansed

by fire, the Rapture coming for the faithful.

Everyone is asked if they’re ready, and no one

is asked if they’re ready for what the end will mean.

‍